Three Lies You Almost Believe And One That You Can't
by Exceeds Samspectations
Summary: Her name is Tonks and she's an Auror. She tells you that you can write her any time you think you need her. You tell her you don't think you will. You're wrong. /Sometimes Tonks can't help but lie to keep Susan happy. And, sometimes, Susan believes.


**A/N: **Written as an audition for pairings in Lady's Writing School. Also for the Slash/Femslash Boot Camp Challenge with the prompt **w****ishful thinking**.

* * *

_1. It'll be alright.  
_  
Your aunt is killed.

You are sleeping soundly in your bed, nestled between bright yellow blankets and the heavy weight of sleep, and she is screaming your name and falling and _dying _and her last words exist only to the one who made them her last.

You don't know this, of course.

Not until _she _tells you.

They knock on your front door and your blood runs cold because you know at once what it must be, what must have happened. The sun that shines through the front window is too bright for this, and you struggle to keep your breathing even as you walk to the door.

You open it to reveal Professor McGonagall and a small, slim woman with spiky brown hair and heart-shaped face.

"I'm sorry, Miss Bones," she says quietly, "It's your aunt."

And that is all you need to hear.

The scream that tears from your throat is desperate and guttural and pained, and you drop to the ground, knees weak, and feel small, warm arms around you and hear the whispers of, "It's okay, it's okay, shhh... It'll be alright."

(That is the first lie she tells you.

Though, of course, you don't know that either.)

_2. You're not a bad person._

It turns out her name is Tonks and she's an Auror. She squeezes your wrist and tells you that you can write her any time you think you need her.

You tell her you don't think you will.

You're wrong.

It takes you two days – two long, long days – to find sleep again, and, when you do, the nightmares wait for you with open arms and leering, jeering grins that make your chest burn and your skin crawl. You wake with a startled scream and cold sweat trickling down your neck, and she is the first person you think of contacting.

_Tonks, _you scrawl, fingers shaking, _I need you._

You have to use your wand to tie it to your owl's foot because your fingers just cannot do it. They still ripple with the memory of those faces and the screams and flashes of green and _Amelia! _and You-Know-Who is laughing and –

She is there with a pop. She holds her arms open for you, a gentler, sweeter version of the nightmares that taunted you so. But this time, falling into those open arms is easy and effortless and _right_, and when she asks if you're okay you tell her that you are now.

You are. You _are_.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asks, and you can't exactly say _no_ now that she's here and she's wrapped around you and, Merlin, it's the middle of the bloody night and she's still _here._

"S-sometimes I wish – I wish that," you stutter, but the words are reluctant to leave your mouth. "Sometimes, I just wish I was h-happy again. Does that make me a bad person?"

Your voice is small and shy, slipping from your mouth like a timid little butterfly and flitting to her ear to die on her skin. When she speaks, her voice is stronger than yours, but still airy and light, your butterfly reborn. It flutters to you, tangling in your hair and tickling your cheek, but it does not die as easily as yours. It echoes, it resonates, it _lives._

"_No."_

And there it is, sharp and honest and true, but you still worry because you must be horrible to think of yourself at a time like this, when your aunt is cold as the tiles beneath your feet.

"Susan," she whispers, and all thoughts of butterflies are chased away by the passion in her voice, "You are not a bad person. Don't you dare think so. I'm sick of people thinking they aren't good enough just because they're not _perfect _all the time. Okay? You. Are. Good."

"Am I though? How could you know?"

"Because I'm here," she says softly, "And you wouldn't need me otherwise."

"So being good is being weak?" you ask, bitterness creeping into your voice and painting it scarlet with shame.

"No. Being good is nothing. But being strong - being strong is admitting you need other people. You're strong, Susan. Don't ever forget that."

"I don't want to be strong," you say, "I want to be happy again. And that makes me a bad person."

You can hear the words that clatter around her mouth and the silence stretches as she searches for the ones that taste just right.

"There is no good. There is no bad. There are a million things in between and you are in there somewhere. But you're not a bad person. No. Not at all."

You don't respond. You want to believe it, to build yourself a suit of armour from these words that mean so much but mean so little and you want them to save you, you want her to save you, you want to be saved and, more than anything, you want to let yourself _believe_.

(But if you're somewhere between good and bad, then how can you be good without being bad? She's wrong. But, then, so are you. So you say nothing and let her chatter on to fill the silence that you don't even notice.

When you wake up, she is gone and you are cold and the words from last night might have been a dream.)

_3. You're perfect.  
_

You call her again four days later, when your parents are going to visit your uncle in Scotland and you can't bear to go but you can't bear to be alone. She's there in minutes, flashing her hearty smiles and talking to you as if you are best friends.

"What do you want to do?" she asks, looking around your sitting room with curious eyes.

"Exploding snap?"

And there's that grin that lights up her face so, and your heart squeezes a little because _you_ put that smile there. It's beautiful.

"You're on, Bones."

She wins, of course. You've always been bad at card games and this one is no different. But somehow it _is_ different, because you were trying so hard. Not to win, not to beat her, but just not to be as utterly crap as you always are.

You know people've been walking on eggshells around you for the past few weeks, and you resent that. You are not made of glass and you will not shatter.

Or so you think. Wrong again, Miss Bones.

When Tonks drops that final card and gives a delighted cheer, hands in the air, chanting her own name like Quidditch fans do for their favourite player, you crack just a little bit.

Because it's _Tonks _and you want to show her that you can be bloody good at something once in a while. But you're _Susan_ and you can't.

You feel your lip wobble, your face crumple in on itself pathetically. Your eyes fill with tears and Tonks is just a blur of pinkness and, "No, no, Susan, it's okay," and her small arms encircle you once more.

"I kn-know. I'm being stu-stupid," you sob, because you _are_ being stupid and your cheeks are flaming with embarrassment. It was a bloody card game!

"You're not being stupid," she says, voice kind, breath warm against you ear, "Sometimes it's the little things that set us off so that the big things seem a bit less scary. Is it your aunt?"

"Yes," you whisper hoarsely, "No. I don't know."

"Tell me what you're thinking. Right now."

"I'm useless," you begin, the words tripping from your shaky tongue but coming obediently, "I can't do anything and Aunt Amelia is dead and I'm not even fighting, Tonks, I'm not even pretending to fight. I want to be in the war and I want to win but I don't want to die, I don't want anyone else to die, I just, I just... I'm useless."

There is a fire in her eyes that blazes with denial as she whispers fiercely, "Don't ever say that. You are perfect."

(And she could've said _you're not useless_ or _you're better than that_ but she didn't, did she? You could've believed anything else but you hear those words and it hits you that maybe she's been lying all along.

_She lies to make you happy, Susan, _you tell yourself.

For a while, it works.)

_4. I love you, too._

The last time you see here, there is electricity in the air that promises a battle. You are holed up in the Room of Requirement and Harry Potter has just turned up, filling your heart with both fear and excitement, and he's gone again. But that crackle is there, that whisper in the winds that says that, tonight, people will die.

Tonks follows soon after. She comes in, all brave smiles and strong shoulders, and her hair is turquoise. On her finger gleams a ring, sparkling in the dim light and reminding you that you never really had a chance at all.

She sees you.

"Susan!" she calls, "Are you okay? What are you doing here?"

"I'm fine," you say, forcing a smile, "I needed to come back here. I needed to."

She nods as if she understands and you wonder if she does. Somehow, you doubt it.

"Good luck out there," she says quietly, and the echo of what could happen scrapes at your heart and reminds you _why_ you need to fight tonight.

"You, too," you say, smiling sadly, because you know that regardless of what happens, she will never be yours.

She nods solemnly and pats your arm. You feel your skin tingle even through the heavy cloth there, and nod in return.

"Tonks," you blurt, as she goes to walk away, "Tonks. Tonks."

You grasp for hands, muttering her name quietly and trying to find the words to tell her what she has done for you, what she means to you. She is the one who kept you alive, she is the one who has kept you sane, she is the one who _understands._

"Susan, are you alright?" she asks, fear in her voice and desperate curiosity in her eyes.

"I just need you to know, Tonks," you murmur, cheeks aflame, hands shaking in hers, "I think... I think I love you."

And with that final breath, it's out there. She's heard and you've heard it and nothing has happened, nobody has moved, and you want to take the words back and shove them down your throat, down down down, until they disappear and you can breathe again.

But, then again, you don't_._

"Oh, Susan," she says, and you feel sick at the pity and understanding and utter sadness in her eyes, "I love you, too."

She squeezes your hand.

Someone calls her name across the Room and she turns, sees her husband's scarred face, and smiles.

"Coming!" she calls, as if she were coming for tea rather than an unlikely soldier in a pointless war.

"Goodbye, Susan," she says, and she is gone.

(She dies that night.

And it breaks your heart that one of last things she ever did was try to make you happy with one of her stupid, selfless lies. She told you she loved you and you let the words ingrain themselves onto your heart but you knew then, as you know now, that those words would be some of the last you would hear from Nymphadora Tonks.

Because she was Tonks, and dying with a lie on her lips would mean nothing to her if it meant you had a smile on yours.

And that just makes you love her all the more.)


End file.
